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My grandpa explained to me why he kept talking to the air vent
My grandfather isn’t the kind of man who is particularly communicative. Actually, he barely bothers to speak at all unless it’s a grunt of satisfaction aimed at a piece of pork chop or a prod to turn the TV channel back to golf. My mother says he’s just selective with his words: I prefer to call him what he is—a dick. He’s always been this way. Even when I was an adorable little toddler teetering my way around his living room, he barely acknowledged me. He would just sit in his plush armchair and read the paper, ignoring my squeals of delight as I practiced my dance recital in front of him. “Pappy, Pappy, look!” I would squawk in his direction. He would just shift his newspaper higher in his lap to hide me from view. It was always grandma who offered me any sort of grandparent-related comfort. She doted on me throughout my childhood; pinching my cheeks, baking me cookies, cooing at every sound or accomplishment I made. So when she passed away last spring, I was heartbroken. Apparently, so was my grandfather. That’s when my mother cooked up the idea for a “granddaughter-grandfather bonding extravaganza.” She shipped me off to live with him for two weeks during summer vacation while she took a honeymoon with her new husband. Even though I am 15 and purely capable of staying alone for two weeks, my mother just couldn’t resist the opportunity to kick-start the grandfatherly affection that should have taken place the day I popped out of the womb. “You’ll have fun, honey,” she said earnestly as she practically kicked me out of the moving car. “He doesn’t even talk!” I yelled in frustration. “Yes he does,” my mother rolled her eyes. “You just have to listen.” The first week and a half ticked by pretty much like I expected. We ignored each other in gruff silence and ate our meals separately: him in front of the TV and me in the guest bedroom. It wasn’t until the last night of my visit that I got up in the middle of the night to piss only to find a light shining from his bedroom. Curious, I peeked out from around the corner. My grandfather was sitting in his armchair, a glass of scotch in his hand and eyes puffy from tears. His gaze was trained toward the air vent next to his bed. “I wish you were still here,” He whispered. I could barely hear him over the clink of ice in the glass. “You wish who were here?” I asked lightly, stepping forward. His gazed up towards me and he beckoned me to sit down on the edge of the bed. I balanced myself on the edge and looked back at him nervously. I don’t think we’ve ever sat this close next to each other. Wordlessly, he handed me the glass of scotch. I took a sip and let the liquid bite my tongue, sending shivers down my spine. I handed it back to him. “I think it’s time you know about my sister,” he murmured. This is his story, in his words. I know you don’t think very highly of me; I don’t think very highly of me either. Honestly, there are a lot of things I would change if I could. You’re young, but you’ll understand that one day. My parents and I lived here ever since I was a little boy. Back then, after the war, this place was like a castle. I loved living here. This was actually my room, believe it or not. And for an eight-year-old boy, it was my kingdom. I used to pretend that my mother and father were the king and queen and I was a prince. I would rule over my stuffed animals as if they were subjects. My parents actually encouraged it, they thought it was cute. My mother was a homemaker. Back then, most women were. So she was always around to cook and clean and play my childish games with me. My father was different. He was attentive when he was home but he was rarely home. See, he was a preacher. He was a “Man of Faith.” When you are young you just trust your parents. You take them on their word, you believe what they say and you have no reason to consider otherwise. So when they told me to go to church three times a week, I dutifully followed through. It was fun being the preacher’s son. My mother and I always seemed to bathed in a heavenly glow wherever we went. People knew us as the perfect family, a family of faith and God and virtue. My father was known as a man of God; someone the community should trust in. So when my father told me to ignore the sounds coming from the attic, I did. I first noticed the sounds the day we moved in. I was sleeping when I heard a muffled cry coming from the air vent. The cry was immediately silenced with a dull thud. I fell back to sleep instantly. For the next few weeks I would hear the occasional pitter patter of footsteps or the off-beat thud in the middle of the night. My father told me that we had rats. I learned to grow accustomed to the random spurts of noise, much as children do. Then one night I was playing in my room when I should have been sleeping. I held my fake sword up to my stuffed animals and pretended to knight them. I was asking them to bow down to me when I heard it. “Hello?” The voice was a muffled echo, barely reaching my ears. It was a girl’s voice. I think that’s why I paid it so much attention. I wasn’t allowed to have girls in the house. “Someone there?” The voice echoed again. I realized, at this point, that it was coming from the air vent next to my bed. I quickly scrambled towards it, letting my fake sword clatter to the floor. “Who’s there?” I asked, using the bravest voice I had. “I Polly. I live in attic.” It’s then that I noticed how childish the voice sounded, how strained it was. I bent my head closer to the vent. “You my brother?” the voice asked. “I’m not sure. Are you my sister?” I countered. “Don’t know. Daddy says I have brother but won’t let me see him.” “Why not?” “Daddy says something wrong with me.” “Is there?” “I can’t think real good.” “Oh. Who’s your father?” I asked. “Michael Larson.” “That’s my father!!” I yelled excitedly. “That means that you must be my sister if we have the same father.” “That how it works?” “I think so, but I guess I don’t really know.” “I don’t know either.” We were silent for a little while. “Why do you live in the attic?” I finally asked, the question burning the roof of my mouth. “Daddy say I can’t leave because I not like everyone else.” “So you’ve never been outside?” “Don’t think so,” Polly said nervously. “Not allowed to talk about it.” “Oh.” I sat back on the bed, puzzled. “I’m uh, I’m going to go to bed,” I said hesitantly into the air vent. “Oh, ok,” Polly answered back. Her voice faltered and for a moment I thought she was going to cry. “But—but I’ll be back!” I said urgently, trying to calm her down. “You will?” “Of course, I’m your brother,” I assured her. “And I your sister.” The next morning I woke up excited. Not only was it Saturday, but I had a sister! I bounded down the stairs two at a time, eager for breakfast. Like every Saturday, my mother had laid out a full breakfast spread for us. After father led us in our morning prayer, I dug in to the steaming pancakes and sausages on my plate. “Woah, woah there, champ,” my father laughed as he watched me shoveling the food into my mouth. “What’s the rush?” “I want to finish quickly so I can go play with my sister,” I explained through a bite of toast. My mother’s face went stone gray as if she had just seen a ghost. My father clenched his jaw and very carefully put down his fork and knife. They didn’t make a sound. “MJ,” he said with an edge he couldn’t hide. “You don’t have a sister.” I looked up from my plate, confused. “Yes I do, she lives—“ “ENOUGH,” my dad roared, pounding the table with his fist. My mom was now looking down at her hands folded neatly in her lap. I saw a small tear fall onto her plate. “Can’t you see you are making your mother upset with your lies?” He hissed. “But, but I’m not—“ “Go to your room this instant, MJ,” he demanded. “And if you try to lie to us again I promise you that you will never get to leave your room.” I pushed back my chair and ran from the table, hot, messy tears sliding down my face. I threw myself onto my bed and cried at the unfairness of it all. After a few minutes, I heard her. “You ok?” Polly asked. Anger flared in my chest. “No,” I spat bitterly. “I got in trouble and it’s all your fault!” “What happened?” I could hear her concern, but I didn’t care. “I told my dad that I had a sister and he yelled at me and grounded me!” I hiccupped between sobs. “You told daddy we talked?” she said in a panicked voice. “Kinda.” “You shouldn’t done that,” I could hear her voice trembling. “I going to be in real trouble. He k-kill me.” “Yeah, well, you deserve it!” I screamed at the air vent. “You ruined my whole day! I was fine before I met you.” I could now hear Polly crying through the vent. I thought her muffled sobs would make me feel better but they only made me feel worse. Guilt bubbled in my stomach. I put a pillow over my head to drown out her crying. I must have fallen asleep because when I woke up the pillow was on the floor and I could hear Polly again. But this time, she wasn’t alone. “No, no,” she whimpered. “How did you find a way to talk to him,” a voice hissed at her. I immediately sat up, my heart pounding in my ears. I knew that voice. “No, no, I be good. I be good,” Polly cried back. I could hear a thump and Polly cry out. I pressed my ear closer to the vent. “I talk to no one.” “You’re lying,” my father’s voice yelled back. “No, I good. I don’t lie.” I heard another thump and now Polly was crying loudly. I shivered as I listened to what was happening above my head. “You better be my good little girl,” my father replied. “You know what happens when you’re a bad girl.” “Please, please no. I good, I very good.” “Take your clothes off.” “No, no I don’t lie—“ Polly’s voice was interrupted by another slap. I heard her cry out and had to clamp my hands over my mouth so I wouldn’t either. “You heard me,” my father challenged. “Take your clothes off.” I sprinted from my bedroom and ran all the way downstairs. A part of me really hoped to see my dad sitting in the living room when I rounded the corner. I prayed, I begged God that I would see my father sitting in his favorite chair. I prayed that I was just imagining things, that my creativity had gotten the better of me. But when I turned into the living room I saw only my mother, sitting rigidly on the sofa as she knitted. “Mother,” I said. Tears were still dripping from my face. “Mother, where’s father?” I was shaking. She looked up at me with a sad smile. “He’s praying, darling.” “Are you telling the truth?” “Of course, dear,” she said. But her eyes told me something different. “Come on now,” she said. “Let’s listen to something on the radio. Your favorite program should be starting soon.” I took my seat besides her and she turned the radio on. She hummed as she continued knitting, her mouth pressed in a firm and tight line. She held the needles so tightly that her fingertips were turning white. “I love your father,” she said. “I know, mother, I know.” My father’s knife cut through the steak as if he was cutting through butter. The meat bled lightly, just how he liked it. “Are you done lying, MJ?” he asked without looking up from his plate. “Yes sir, I am,” I answered back. “I let my imagination get the better of me.” He smiled at me and pointed his knife towards my mother. “And what do you have to say to the woman who gave birth to you?” My face flushed red. “I’m sorry, mother.” “There’s my good boy,” he said as he continued to eat. “I think you learned your lesson then.” “I did.” The dinner talk then turned towards the church fundraiser happening the next weekend. My mother promised she would bake her famous pecan pie and my father discussed who from Bible Study would be attending. After dinner I excused myself to my bedroom. “Polly?” I whispered into the air vent. I heard a small series of sniffling, as if she were crying. Guilt boiled in my chest. “Polly, I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “Can you forgive me?” “I guess,” Polly replied. “Are you ok?” “No.” I looked around my room for a second. “Well, whenever I’m sad I like to play a game,” I explained as I picked up my toy sword. “Do you want to play with me?” “Ok.” “Ok, well I’ll be the prince and you can be the princess. And we both have kingdoms that we can rule. Yours can be the attic and mine can be my bedroom. Does that sound fun?” I heard her sniffle. “I be princess?” “Of course!” I assured her. “You can be anything you want to be.” And that’s how it started: with a game. We would wait until I heard my father go to sleep every night and then we would give our secret code. I would tap the inside of the air vent twice and, if she could talk, she would tap right back. Then we knew it was safe to play. Some nights we would rule over our kingdoms while other nights I would read her stories from one of my books. Some nights, we would just talk. It was nice, having her around. I grew accustomed to our routine. But like all routines, sometimes they break. Sometimes I would tap into the air vent and hear nothing back except some weird groans and the occasional thud. When I would go downstairs, I would always see my mother knitting silently in the living room, knuckles white. Father was nowhere to be seen. That’s how I knew he was in the attic with Polly. Polly didn't like to talk much after those times. “What outside like?” Polly asked one night. I was lying on my back, my head turned towards the air vent. I pondered for a second. “It’s...big, I guess,” I said lamely. “But it’s cold now because it’s almost Christmas time. There’s a lot of snow.” “What snow like?” “You’ve never seen snow?” “No.” “Well,” I said. “Why don’t I show you?” Polly paused. “I don’t leave attic ever.” I sat up on my bed. “What if you left just once? I can come and get you. I can take you outside so you can see the snow and then I can take you back! Father won’t have to know.” “Like...like secret?” Polly asked. I could hear the excitement bellow out of her. “Outside! Outside!” she yelled, forgetting the hushed tones we normally used. I laughed. “Yes, let’s do it!” I screamed as I got caught up in the excitement. “When!?” Polly yelled. “We can go right—“ “Who are you talking to?” My father interrupted. My face turned beat red as I turned from the air vent to face him. I was caught. “No-no one,” I mumbled weakly. “I’m just playing a game.” My father’s eyes wandered to where my stuffed animals were, shoved away into the corner, forgotten and abandoned. “With who?” He challenged. “No one, sir. Just myself.” His face turned to stone and he nodded gruffly at me. “Carry on, then. Just try to keep it down.” And he turned out the door. I nearly shit myself with relief that he had believed me. I waited a few minutes before I spoke again. “Let’s wait until he goes to bed, then I can take you!” I whispered. But I didn’t get a response. “Polly?” I asked after a few more minutes. “Polly do you still want to go outside?” “No,” my father’s voice answered back. “She doesn’t.” I clapped my hands over my mouth and bolted upright from my bed. “MJ,” Polly answered back weakly. “Help.” But I stood frozen. I didn’t move when I heard thud after thud after thud. I didn’t move when Polly whimpered out for her brother. I didn’t move when I heard my father smack her. And I still didn’t move when the attic turned as silent as the snow outside. I stood there, in the middle of my room, with my hands balled into fists at my side. I stood there as I heard my father leave the attic, his steps staggered and heavy. I stood there as I saw the porch light blink into life outside of the window. And I stood there as I watched my father digging, digging and digging all night long. In the morning there was a raised patch of dirt under the maple tree that wasn’t covered with snow like the rest of the back yard. And the air vent? The air vent was silent. My grandfather put down his glass and stared back towards the air vent. The room seemed heavier now. “Her—her name was Polly?” I asked. He nodded. “Like you,” he smiled weakly. “When you were born I asked your mother to name you Polly.” “Does she know why?” “She knows I had a sister. She doesn’t know much else.” I was silent for a second. “What did you do after—after it happened?” My grandfather looked down into his drink. “Nothing. Just like what I did when it was happening.” “What was wrong with her?” I asked slowly. “Why did, why did your father keep her locked away?” He was silent for a moment before he took a swig of his drink. “I think she had Down Syndrome. And I think my father was ashamed of that.” He sighed. “Grandpa, I’m so—“ “Don’t,” he interrupted. “It’s not necessary.” We sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the gentle hum of the air vent. “Polly would have made a fine princess,” I whispered. He smiled and for a second I could have sworn that I saw the flicker of what he had been like as an eight-year-old boy. “Yes,” he agreed. “She would have.” Category:Fanfic Category:Creepypasta